


Better to Give than Receive

by Vera_dAuriac



Series: The Debts We Make [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M, Sexual Fantasy, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5358581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/pseuds/Vera_dAuriac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve, the party at the garrison is in full swing, but Athos hasn't given his gifts yet.</p><p>"D’Artagnan absolutely needed his present, and Porthos, Athos was certain, would adore his. It was Aramis’s gift that worried Athos; and perhaps what the others would think of the gift as well."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better to Give than Receive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> In my The Debts We Make series, this truly fits in chronologically at 3 even though it was written 4th.
> 
> I've done my best to make this story stand on its own, although reading in order has its benefits.
> 
> These characters aren't mine, etc.
> 
> Hope you love your Christmas fluff, Canadian Garrison. Happy Hanukkah! ;)

By Vera d'Auriac

Athos, frankly, had been in favor of not doing anything special for Christmas this year. How elaborate the season became at the garrison fluctuated from year to year, depending how busy the Musketeers were and how broke they found themselves. Of course, Serge always managed a delightful supper—Réveillon and whatever specialties he could find in the shops, along with bûche de Noël and more desserts than anyone needed. But if duty called, the decorations might be confined at a single yule log and the party to an extra glass of wine with Serge’s supper. As far as Athos was concerned, the latter would be more than adequate. But Aramis had pestered Treville, arguing that they needed to do something especially festive this Christmas given the hard year they had just gone through. Athos thought their hard year was precisely the reason they should be more muted that usual, particularly Aramis, who was still not physically himself after being tortured in Andorra, or mentally himself after the Queen announced her pregnancy. 

But Christmas at the garrisons was undoubtedly happening, and Athos had done his bit, as would be expected of him. He had helped hang the advent wreath and set up the Nativity scene, and more importantly, he had purchased gifts for d’Artagnan, Porthos, and Aramis. He had bought them a couple weeks ago, and yet, here it was Christmas Eve, the garrison party at its zenith, the three of them had already given him presents, and yet he still held onto theirs. He was being ridiculous, he well knew. As soon as they had given him their gifts (d’Artagnan—a terrible bottle of brandy with a deceptively fancy label; Porthos—a bottle of Athos’s favorite wine; Aramis—a far more expensive vintage than Athos ever bought for himself) he should have given them their presents. Now it was just getting awkward, as over the past week they had all exchanged gifts as well. God knew d’Artagnan went nowhere without the new hat Aramis had bought him.

“Athos, why don’t you come over by the fire and join us?” d’Artagnan asked, adjusting the wide-brimmed, dark leather hat. Athos did his best not to smile at how the enormous feather jiggled whenever d’Artagnan did this. Poor d’Artagnan had probably never been so proud of anything in his life, save the pauldron on his shoulder marking him as a Musketeer. A few nights before when Porthos had sneaked into d’Artagnan’s room to take it and hold it hostage, d’Artagnan had been sleeping in it. When one of the other young men of the regiment had asked to try it on, d’Artagnan looked as though the other soldier had asked to sleep with his mother. “It’s Christmas and you shouldn’t be sitting alone.”

Athos peered through the festive crowd of Musketeers to watch Aramis and Porthos resting on a bench by the wild blaze someone (probably Aramis) had over stoked. He felt the cold more than the rest of them, and ever since their return from Andorra, Porthos had been positively babying him in this and every other whim. Aramis, naturally, complained about being mothered when this made him feel smothered and he wished to do things for himself, and took full advantage of it when Porthos was offering some comfort he wanted. Athos sighed. “I suppose it’s past time I gave you all your gifts.”

“So you did buy us something after all,” d’Artagnan smiled, nodding his head a bit more than necessary so as to show off his hat again. “Aramis was beginning to joke that you had forgotten, if not just refused. You did forget them in your rooms several times when you promised you would bring them.”

Every time Athos had promised to bring them but said he had not, the truth was the presents were sitting snug in his saddlebags. It was really quite ridiculous. D’Artagnan absolutely needed his present, and Porthos, Athos was certain, would adore his. It was Aramis’s gift that worried Athos; and perhaps what the others would think of the gift as well. Even though it was a simple thing, Athos feared everyone who saw him give Aramis his present would also know what had gone on in Athos’s mind when he bought the present. 

“Just give me a moment to go to the stable. They’re in my saddlebags.”

Athos grabbed an apple from the buffet table before heading to the door. And also could not help a glance at Aramis and Porthos, still resting by the fire. Once again they were trying to put Porthos’s new dagger in Aramis’s new sheath. The dagger had been Aramis’s present to Porthos to replace the one he had broken on their mission to Andorra. The sheath Porthos had given Aramis, a gift intended to replace the one Aramis had, “left behind in the boudoir of a lovely lady.” Athos questioned the truthfulness of this story, but no one else at the garrison did, since it would not be the first item Aramis had forgotten in a lady’s bedchamber. And he had, indeed, lost the sheath to one of his daggers somewhere, so the new one was a thoughtful gift. Of course, the way in which the two of them continued to giggle like schoolboys over trying to get Porthos’s weapon in Aramis’s sheath had worn thin for Athos.

All was quiet in the yard on the way to the stables, everyone save the two men on guard duty inside on this cold night, enjoying the festivities. Athos nodded to them and then slipped inside the stables, lighting one of the lamps left by the door. Some of the horses whinnied a bit, but not Roger, who had one of the front stalls. Athos patted his head as he reached over to the peg on the top rail to grab his saddlebag. Before he sat down on the stool with the bag, he offered the apple to a grateful Roger.

First he pulled out d’Artagnan’s present—a new powder horn. Athos couldn’t help noticing that d’Artagnan’s was old and dented, and a few weeks ago, he had even spotted a hint of rust. D’Artagnan would be no use to any of them with wet powder, so a new horn was an absolute necessity. Of course, buying the one with the fine etching of a Gascony landscape was probably more than strictly needed, but it was lovely, and Athos had no doubt d’Artagnan would like it very much.

The second present he took out he had wrapped tightly in oilcloth against the cold and damp. Now he unfurled the gift to make certain nothing had happened to it while riding around with him. It still looked as lovely as the day he bought it, the red leather shining and the gold embossed lettering positively gleaming even in nothing but his simple lamp. The lettering read _La Chanson de Roland_. One of the classics of French poetry, the epic _The Song of Roland_ told the tale of a brave warrior who fought to the death for the glory of Charlemagne. With its heroic and martial story, Athos suspected Porthos, with his not terribly secret love of reading, would appreciate it.

Finally, Athos pulled out the last gift, the one he felt certain would be impossible to actually give. Aramis was frequently cold, and he loved expensive gloves, and yet Athos had never seen a man who owned so many pairs of gloves entirely unsuited to cold weather. They were always lovely, soft leather in green or burgundy or brown, but Aramis’s gloves seldom did more that provide the most meager barrier against the elements while looking beautiful. Athos was determined to find Aramis something attractive and warm for Christmas.

When Athos had walked into the glover’s, he had definite ideas of what he wanted to get Aramis, but of course the proprietor had wanted to show Athos his full array. Patiently, Athos had looked at each of the gloves and began imaging them on Aramis’s hands. It had taken embarrassingly little time for him to then envision Aramis’s hands in the gloves, touching him. “What would it feel like if Aramis were wearing these gloves and touched my face? My chest? My thighs? My cock?” Athos had immediately felt himself overheating in the stuffy shop and demanded to know which gloves were the warmest. The glover had pointed to a pair made of shiny black leather, lined with gray rabbit fur. Athos thought they looked well enough—they had a raised stitch along the back of each finger and the fur lining stuck out at the cuff, providing a rather nice outline. He paid as quickly as possible and bolted from the shop.

And ever since that moment, Athos had been riding around Paris with the gloves in his saddlebag, terrified of looking Aramis in the face when he handed them over. Perhaps Athos should just wrap them in paper with Aramis’s name on it and drop them somewhere that Aramis would find them later. It would be best if he did not have to see Aramis’s reaction to the gift that Athos had imagined him wearing and using in the most lewd fashion—he slapped Athos with them, pulled them off with his teeth one finger at a time, stood before Athos wearing nothing other than them. No. He would leave them somewhere, maybe even where Aramis would never find them, and apologize that his gift had been lost.

“Athos?” 

Athos could not prevent a twitch, but he hoped Aramis could not detect how startled he had been by his approach. “Aramis. What brings you to the stables?”

“You. D’Artagnan said you came out to get presents from your saddlebag. Since I had no desire to hear him bicker with Porthos again over which of the dirty etchings Porthos bought him was the most enchanting, I thought I would come out here and see if you needed help.”

“I still cannot believe Porthos bought d’Artagnan prints of naked women.” Athos shook his head, but he smiled, nonetheless.

“So, what do you have here?” Aramis asked, pulling over a stool to sit beside Athos. “A powder horn! What a perfect gift for the pup! I wanted to maintain the festive cheer, but I was going to say something to him in a few days. Dry powder is nonnegotiable.”

Athos gripped the gloves tightly in his hands, praying Aramis might not see them there. At least for the moment, he did not, and instead picked up _The Song of Roland_.

“This is lovely binding,” Aramis said, turning the book over him his hands. “And _Roland_ is as fine a poem in French as you will find, if you go in for that sort of military epic. Which of course Porthos does. I assume this is for him?”

Athos nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Aramis searched the area around them. “Is that…all?”

The hurt he tried to cover in his voice when he asked the question made it impossible for Athos to hide the gloves any longer. He would far rather suffer the worst embarrassment than cause Aramis pain. “No,” said Athos. “I bought you these.” He held out the gloves, and Aramis took them.

“They are beautiful,” Aramis said a touch breathlessly. “The leather is gorgeous, and I love this stitching.” His hands were bare at the moment, having not bothered to put on gloves simply to walk to the stable for a moment. He tugged on the left first and then the right. They seemed snug, and for a moment Athos panicked that he had bought the wrong size, but Aramis flexed his fingers several times and his lips broke into a broad grin. “And they could not fit more perfectly! You must tell me who the glover is so I can order more pairs. And so soft and warm. I just adore them, Athos.” He leaned toward Athos. “Thank you so much.” He placed one of the gloved hands on top of one of Athos’s bare ones resting on his knee. “This is the most wonderful present. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Athos! Aramis! You both have to come kill Porthos!”

Once again, Athos had to fight to control his reaction to being startled. Aramis showed no surprise at all, and simply let his hand slide off Athos’s. With a smile Athos did not know how to interpret, Aramis stood up and turned to face d’Artagnan. “Now, now d’Artagnan, I have wanted to kill Porthos more frequently than any other man alive, and yet he still lives, so I suspect an accommodation can be found.”

Athos rose as well, clutching the other presents to his chest. Still, he stayed a few steps behind Aramis while d’Artagnan came close to plead his case. 

“He insisted that the etching of Colette was more beautiful than Marie, and when I held up the etching of Marie to prove she was the more beautiful, he threw his dagger at it!”

Aramis and Athos both barely stifled snorts. “And you wish me to kill him because he put a hole in your picture of the beautiful Marie?”

“No, he missed the etching. It’s just fine,” said d’Artagnan. “I want you to kill him because what he hit was this!” From behind his back, d’Artagnan whipped out his new hat, less beautiful now with a gaping hole in the crown. 

This time Aramis could not contain his laughter at all. “Oh, Porthos, Porthos! What am I going to do with you?”

“Kill him! I demand recompense for the lovely hat you bought me and he destroyed.”

“Perhaps execution is a bit harsh,” Aramis said, placing a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and steering him out of the stable. “Perhaps, since I was the giver of both presents, he should forfeit the dagger to you as payment?”

“Really? You would make him give me the dagger? It’s a wonderful weapon.”

Athos now followed on behind them, thinking Aramis’s gloved left hand looked rather lovely on d’Artagnan shoulder. He could not say precisely what had passed between them when he gave Aramis the gloves, and he could only speculate what would have happened had d’Artagnan not interrupted them. But now that he could see the gloves on Aramis’s hands, Athos was glad he had given them to him. Aramis would treasure them, as he was wont to treasure gifts. 

Stepping back out into the yard, Athos paused to peer up into the night sky and the light snow that had begun to fall on Paris.

“Athos,” Aramis called back. “Are you coming? You’ll freeze in this snow.” Athos trotted to catch up with them, falling in on Aramis’s right. Aramis threw his arm around Athos’s shoulder, gripping him tight and pulling him close. “Now, gentlemen, let us go part Porthos from his dagger.”


End file.
